


Name for You

by partypaprika



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-22 08:44:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9597542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partypaprika/pseuds/partypaprika
Summary: For a second, Nate is on high alert—his senses reaching out for the incoming attack, but then he gets a good look at Brad’s face and his smile goes wickedly soft.“So it’s like that,” Nate says.“Yeah,” Brad says leaning in. “It’s like that.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oddishly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddishly/gifts).



> oddishly, happy Valentine's Day!

NOW

 

After all this time, Nate’s developed a routine when he tells people about his husband. “Oh, you’re married?” people generally say after a brief pause while they mentally recast Nate, former Marine Corps officer and current national security policy expert, in a new light.

“Yes,” Nate says, still holding his smile.

“How did you two meet?” is always the inevitable next question.

This is really the part that Nate’s got down pat. “We initially met in the Marines many years ago,” Nate says. “But we only reconnected when we saw each other at a conference here in D.C., a few years back.”

Most people find that sufficient and don’t inquire further, out of politeness. But when people press Nate about their service together, Nate will tell them matter-of-factly that they served together, but weren’t very close during that time. “We ended up doing some military policy-related work,” Nate says. “And that’s when we hit it off.”

Policy work, Brad’s ass. Unless drinking in a shitty DC bar and reminiscing suddenly counts as policy advancement.

Brad also has a routine when people ask him about the two of them. “Yes, this is my husband,” Brad says. If they keep looking at him expectantly, Brad adds, “Nate,” and then smiles at the dim-witted inbred idiots until they get the hint.

Some people. Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker.

 

 

 

 

2014

 

Brad sees the ring in the window of Kings Jewelry, mixed in with all the other engagement rings and ostentatious earrings. Something about the way that the light is glinting off of the gold bands catches his eye. It’s not that the bands are in any way impressive—they’re simple gold bands, none of those ridiculous asteroid bands or covered in fucking diamonds—but there are two of them, together, just waiting there.

Brad stares at them so long that Nate texts him, _Where are you? I’m ordering you a vanilla latte with extra syrup if you aren’t here in the next five minutes_ , forcing Brad to double-time it to Mischa’s before Nate sticks Brad with the world’s most disgusting beverage.

“What was the hold-up?” Nate says when Brad arrives. Contrary to his threat, he’s ordered Brad a regular coffee and a plain bagel which Brad gratefully accepts.

Brad’s already got an answer prepared. “Run took longer than expected.”

Nate raises an eyebrow, a little skeptical, but doesn’t press the issue. “Tonight,” Nate starts. Brad, through great force of will, does not groan. “I have to be at the dinner by six p.m. When do you think that you’ll arrive?”

It’s not that Brad doesn’t like spending an evening, talking to people he doesn’t know and has no desire to know, when he could be at home, hanging out with Nate by himself. No, wait, that’s exactly it. Brad hates these dinner events. Only a deep and abiding love for Nate would make Brad agree to show up at these things.

“Seven p.m.,” Brad says.

“It’ll be fun,” Nate says and then at Brad’s look of disbelief, smiles. “No, you’re right. It won’t. But thank you for coming anyways.” He looks so happy and open that Brad’s chest squeezes painfully. There isn’t much that Brad wouldn’t do to make Nate happy and if it means showing up at some stupid liberal kumbaya sing-along where everyone pretends they’re fixing third world countries through the power of love and a few measly dollars, then Brad would show up.

 

Work is a mess and leaves Brad with a pressing headache, but Brad holds true to his promise and shows up at the Carnegie Library right at seven on the dot. The cocktail hour is about to end, so there’s a crush of people making their way to their dinner seats, but Brad is able to pick Nate out immediately, surrounded by a few people that Brad vaguely remembers from one of these previous dinners.

“Brad,” Nate says, smiling over the head of the woman that he’s talking to. The woman—maybe a Tina?—turns around and smiles politely at Brad. “Just in time for dinner. We should probably take our seats. Tina—a pleasure as always. Let’s set up a lunch to talk further.”

“Sounds fantastic,” Tina says. “Brad, nice to see you.”

“You as well,” Brad says and then Tina disappears into the crowd, leaving just Nate and Brad to make their way. “So on a scale from one to basic, how horrible is this going to be?”

Nate thinks for a second. “Better than basic, worse than BRC,” he says, but he reaches over and briefly presses his hand against Brad’s.

 

After dinner and the speakers, Nate heads off to mingle, leaving Brad to make small talk with the rest of his table, a mix of lawyers and other policy wonks. When Brad realizes that he will spontaneously combust the next time that someone else asks him about how the US plans to defeat ISIS, Brad looks over to Nate. He’s standing about ten feet away and chatting with two men in suits expensive enough to cover Brad’s yearly rent, so Brad figures they’re either senators or compensating for really small dicks. Nate catches Brad’s eye, letting his lips barely quirk up, so Brad knows that they’re wealthy and just very poorly endowed.

Brad raises his eyebrows back, asking if Nate needs a rescue. Nate doesn’t give the clear out, which Brad takes to mean that Nate can handle them fine, but wouldn’t mind an assist, so Brad excuses himself from the scintillating conversation going on around him regarding the changing demographics of the military, and makes his way over to Nate.

“Nate,” Brad says, inserting himself into the conversation. Nate gives Brad a wry look that says that he had the situation under control that Brad blithely ignores as he holds his hand out to the two men.

Nate turns back to the two men, a smile on his face, and says, “Gene, Michael, this is Master Sergeant Brad Colbert.” For a quick second, Brad thinks back to the golden bands from earlier. Long ago, he and Nate fell into the pattern of introducing each other as just individuals. It seemed easier—Brad never felt comfortable saying the word “boyfriend” and partner sounded like some daytime television talk show politically correct garbage.

But as the men’s attention quickly returns to Nate, Brad thinks about how these men probably assume that Nate and Brad are just colleagues or acquaintances. Maybe friends. Maybe nothing at all.

When they finally escape the dinner, Brad feels something itching beneath his skin, this strange urge to reach out and claim Nate, to leave a mark behind that says that Brad Colbert was there and will be there, forever. By the time that they get down to the garage, the itch is bad enough to make Brad feel reckless, so on their walk to the car, Brad pushes Nate up against a pillar.

For a second, Nate is on high alert—his senses reaching out for the incoming attack, but then he gets a good look at Brad’s face and his smile goes wickedly soft.

“So it’s like that,” Nate says.

“Yeah,” Brad says leaning in. “It’s like that.”

They kiss and press against one another long enough that Brad’s in more than a little danger of coming in his pants, something that Brad would normally find horribly embarrassing, but Brad feels intoxicated right now, full steam ahead, so Nate is the one who finally pulls away.

Nate’s breathing hard, lips swollen, the solid line of his cock pressed flush against Brad’s thigh. “Maybe we should move this someplace more private before we start violating indecency laws,” he says.

Brad must pause too long because Nate takes a deep breath to regain control and then gives Brad an odd look. Brad wills himself to pull it together and gives Nate his best devil-may-care look.

“Yes, sir,”

“That’s just playing dirty,” Nate says, trying to glare at Brad, but if his half-hooded eyes didn’t give it away, Brad only needs to press in to know just how turned on he is.

Brad makes sure to spend the car ride gently running his hand up and down Nate’s inseam, Nate’s grip on the wheel getting tighter and tighter until they park. Nate practically explodes when they get inside the house, pushing Brad up against the wall, kissing Brad hard and rough before Brad begins leaving bites across Nate’s shoulder.

They make it to bed, but just barely, clothing strewn across the entrance and hallway and they fuck like Brad’s just returned from deployment. Brad comes first, body going loose and languid as Nate moves above him and then Nate comes with a shout, collapsing onto Brad.

They lie there, panting, until Nate gathers enough energy to pull out and roll over onto the bed.

“Wow,” Nate says eventually. “I guess we’ll have to schedule some more military policy dinners since they deliver such great results.”

“Ha,” Brad says, staring up at the ceiling. The paint is starting to wear down and there are a few small cracks that bear investigating. He should do something about that.

Nate rolls over on his side to look at Brad, but Brad doesn’t move, just keeps examining the ceiling.

“Hey,” Nate says quietly. “What’s going on?”

Brad thinks about the rings—it’s a fact that some part of him has always known that he wants to be with Nate for as long as Nate can stand him. But even though that Brad knows that Nate loves him—that Nate chooses to be with him—there are always the what-ifs. What if Nate meets someone smarter, hotter, happier, better? What if Nate feels obligated to stay with Brad when there’s someone out there that’s his perfect match? What if?

Nate reaches out and intertwines his hand with Brad’s. “What are you thinking?”

Brad wants Nate and he _wants_ Nate. He wants Nate more than anything else, tangible or intangible. Asking Nate to stay with Brad, to make a commitment to Brad forever, may be the most selfish thing that Brad has ever wanted.

Brad has always been selfish when it comes to Nate.

Brad turns and faces Nate, keeping their hands intertwined. “Will you marry me?” he says.

Nate’s smile spreads across his face. “Yes,” he says. “Yes—Absolutely, yes.” And Brad feels his own smile in answer as Nate leans back in.

They end up going for a second round and when Brad lies back afterwards, sated and utterly relaxed, Nate says, thoughtfully, “You know, if we’re going to get married, I think we’ll have to have a ceremony.”

“No, no, stop,” Brad says, but then Nate has to go ahead and say that they’ll probably have to invite their Corps friends, so Brad drags himself up and leans over Nate. Nate gives Brad a look that says he knows exactly what Brad is trying to do, but he’ll tolerate it for the time being, so Brad takes it for the opportunity that it is and kisses Nate.

 

 

 

 

2011

 

When Brad turns the corner, his stomach drops faster than a man out of an airplane sans parachute. Brad’s first thought is to retreat, drop out of sight, avoid catastrophe but it’s already too late, Nate Fick looking up from where he’s talking with an older gentleman and young woman. Brad vaguely remembers being introduced to the older man earlier as one of Brad’s fellow panelists, which probably means that Nate’s also a panelist. _Shit shit shit_ , Brad thinks as Nate looks at Brad with a faintly puzzled expression that gives way to brief surprise followed by Nate’s patented poker face.

 _Screw this_ , Brad thinks as the alarm bells keep sounding, he can do the introduction rounds later, the more important thing is making a tactical retreat. But of course, Nate’s already politely excusing himself from his conversation and making his way over towards Brad.

He had known abstractly that there was a chance that he might cross paths with Nate, but he’d counted on the fact that there were several million other people in the D.C. metropolitan area to thin the odds out a bit. Clearly, the universe had decided to play hard and fast with statistics.

Brad steels himself and puts on a polite smile in order to not scare off the civilians. “Gunnery Sergeant Colbert,” Nate says, once he gets close enough to be overheard.

“Sir, it’s Master Sergeant,” Brad says, trying to keep himself steady.

“Of course,” Nate says. “It’s a pleasant surprise to see you, Master Sergeant.”

 _Is it really?_ Brad wonders. “You as well.”

Nate holds out a hand so Brad reaches forward to grasp Nate’s hand, ignoring how his body wants to automatically lean into Nate’s touch. Nate’s hand is warm and slightly callused and Brad keeps his other hand deliberately by his side to avoid the temptation to reach out and touch Nate.

“Fick!” a middle-aged man calls out as he approaches them. Brad starts to pull back in order to make the most of the distraction, but without missing a beat, Nate reaches out to grab Brad’s arm, anchoring him into place.

“Ah, Jim, great to see you,” Nate says enthusiastically. “This is my good friend, Master Sergeant Colbert.” Good friend? That seems like a stretch and yet barely scratching the surface of their relationship to each other.

Jim nods at Brad and Brad nods back before Nate and Jimbo launch into a discussion of their respective panel topics. Brad would try to get away, but Nate’s got something like a death grip on him, so Brad gives up the ghost and accepts his fate. Whoever said that civilians went soft clearly hadn’t met Nate.

Since there’s no real need for Brad to interject himself into the conversation, Brad takes the opportunity to do some discreet recon on Nate. He’s gotten older since when Brad last saw him—new lines around his eyes and mouth, but he’s still lean and fit. Nate’s clearly maintaining solid PT, which can’t be easy with the schedule that Brad imagines Nate keeps. He’s got bags under his eyes, probably from burning the midnight oil. But he looks—he looks good.

Brad hates that he looks at Nate’s left hand, but he does look, confirming that there’s no wedding band. So Nate’s not married, although that doesn’t exactly mean anything.

“Absolutely, we’ll have to catch up later,” Nate says and shakes Jim’s hand again before detaching himself and Brad and subtly moving them to a more secluded part of the room.

“Which panel?” Nate asks, direct and to the point. It’s one of the things that Brad has always liked best about him.

“Coalition Training and Interoperability,” Brad says.

Nate smiles. “Should have guessed. I’m on the Independent Cyber Security and Defense panel and participated in the workshop earlier today.” He gauges Brad for a second and then switches tracks. “Based at Quantico?”

“Yeah, but living in Alexandria,” Brad says.

Nate’s whole face lights up. “I’m in Georgetown. I can’t believe that I didn’t know that you were living here. I am completely appalled at the failure of the Marine Corps gossip to inform me of this fact.”

Brad snorts. “Georgetown? Why am I not surprised?”

“By which you mean, could I have picked anywhere more pretentious and liberal? Like… Alexandria?”

Brad mimes a shot to the heart. “You wound me, sir. Implying that I would live surrounded by them.”

“I bet that you even drink artisanal coffee now,” Nate says.

“You take that back,” Brad says, but he can’t stop smiling even as his heart is speeding up and Brad tries to remind himself of just why things ended so badly last time.

Nate cocks his head at Brad. “What do you say that we get out of here?” he asks.

“I—” Brad starts, prepared to give an excuse, any excuse, but nothing comes. Brad tries to remind himself that staying may be the more boring option, but at least it won’t end with Brad trying to drown his sorrows in speeding tickets and by fucking his way through half of the American populace.

On the other hand, Brad tells himself, no one ever joins the Marines for safety. Brad’s always been a little more than reckless and he’s never been able to resist Nate’s lead. Even when Brad knows exactly just how deep and dark the hole can get.

“Lead on,” Brad says, but he must take too long because Nate gives Brad a crooked smile, one that says that Nate’s relieved that Brad said yes. That Nate had thought Brad might say no, but had asked anyways.

They end up at some snooty gastropub on F Street, across from the National Press Club, where they make small talk through burgers and beer before Nate gets that gleam in his eye and starts ordering them bourbon.

“I still can’t believe it’s you, in the flesh,” Nate says, his voice loose and easy from the bourbon that’s starting to sink in.

 _You’re not the only one_ , Brad thinks. Nate narrows his eyes. The fucker can probably read Brad’s mind now.

“Sometimes I can’t believe it’s me either,” Brad says and his voice must be a little too close to bitter because Nate looks up sharply.

“Brad, what’s going on?” Nate asks and Brad’s immediately aware that it’s the first time all night that Nate’s used his first name.

“Nothing,” Brad says and signals the waitress for another round.

 

It’s almost midnight when Brad looks at his watch next. Nate does the same and gives a low whistle. Somehow, they’d managed to inch close to each other, legs almost touching, but not. Brad feels hyper aware of where Nate is and he feels the movement ripple through Nate’s body as he sits up, abruptly having come to some decision.

“Do you want to come back to my place?” Nate says, looking straight at Brad.

There’s no doubting Nate’s meaning and it’s the sentence that Brad had been half praying and half dreading to hear all night long.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Brad says.

“Why not?”

Brad sighs. “You know why.”

“I don’t think that I do,” Nate says, leaning forward, his face going hard and closed. “Please explain to me why going back to my place isn’t a good idea.”

It’s one hundred percent obvious why it isn’t a good idea. Tomorrow morning, Brad’s going to wake up, wanting more, something that neither Nate nor he can commit to.

“We both know that it’s not just going back to your place,” Brad says.

“Why can’t ‘let’s go back to my place’ just mean ‘let’s go back to my place?’”

“We both know why. There is no just between us. There’s never “just” anything between us. We’ve been down this road before.” Brad says. He can’t quite look at Nate, taking the coward’s way out and staring down at his beer bottle. Brad may be strong in a hundred different ways, but Nate’s never been one of those ways. Brad’s got no defenses when it comes to Nate and his last run in left such deep wounds and gouges, Brad half thought that he wouldn’t survive them.

Nate doesn’t say anything in response and the silence weighs on Brad until he finally can’t take it anymore and downs the rest of his glass.

“Ok,” Brad says.

“Ok?” Nate asks, at a bit of a loss.

“I want to see the Georgetown sights,” Brad says.

“But you just said…” Nate says slowly.

“I know what I said,” Brad says. “Show me the Georgetown sights.”

Nate takes a long look at Brad and then downs his bourbon as well. “Alright,” he says, mostly to himself. “Alright.”

Brad signals for the check.

 

Nate apparently does have a good view of the Georgetown sights, a window that looks out onto some sort of park that Nate informs Brad is actually a cemetery.

“Spooky,” Brad says and turns back around. “But I didn’t actually come here for those Georgetown sights.”

Nate laughs, a little nervously, before he steps into Brad’s space and leans up. It’s been a long time since they last did this, but it’s like sliding home, all of the keys slotting into place, as Nate kisses Brad, relentless and demanding and when they pull apart, Brad imagines that this is what it must be like when a heroin addict relapses—Nate filling up his veins, short-circuiting his brain, until Brad can only revel in it.

Brad begins pulling Nate’s shirt out of his pants, slowly undoing the buttons. Nate’s breath is coming hot and fast against Brad’s cheek until he captures Brad’s mouth for another kiss.

“Shirt,” Nate says hoarsely, when Brad’s finally peeled him out of his shirt.

“Yes, that was your shirt,” Brad acknowledges.

Nate gives Brad a look that Brad counters with a shit-eating grin that’s far more confident than he feels right now. “No, your shirt.”

“Yes, sir,” Brad says, quickly stripping his shirt off. Nate sucks in a breath that makes Brad feel ridiculously smug.

“I move that we adjourn to the bedroom,” Brad says.

“You mean to say that you don’t want carpet burn?” Nate says, laughing, but he’s already turning and moving towards the bedroom.

“I am an old man now,” Brad says, as seriously as he can muster.

“Oh yeah, real old,” Nate says, and for a moment, when Nate draws Brad down onto Nate’s bed, Brad does feel as young and carefree as he did ten years ago.

Afterwards, they lay there, catching—really catching up—on the past few years.

“I almost got married,” Brad confesses. Nate immediately stills his fingers on Brad’s tattoo. “After we…Her name was Carri Anne.”

Nate doesn’t say anything for a long time and when he finally speaks, his voice is tight. “Why didn’t you?”

 _Because she wasn’t you_ , Brad thinks. “A lot of reasons.” Nate’s still waiting though, so Brad continues. “And then she punched holes in my wall when we broke up.”

Nate snorts and goes back to tracing Brad’s tattoo. For a long time, it’s silent and Brad has the fleeting thought that if neither of them speak, they can stay like this forever.

Then, apropos of nothing, Brad’s mouth moves before his brain can block it. “You know, I thought about calling you after the repeal.” He doesn’t have to say which repeal.

“Why didn’t you?” Nate asks.

“I felt like the world’s biggest coward. I’d broken up with you over it only to find out if I had just held on for a little while longer, it would barely have been an issue.”

“But you couldn’t have known that,” Nate points out.

“—And I had no knowledge what your status was at the time. It wouldn’t have been fair to you if you had been married with a kid on the way.

“If it makes your self-flagellation feel better, I was seeing someone at the time,” Nate says. “Although it didn’t end up being very serious or long-term. You seem to be a difficult person to try and get over.”

Brad’s breath catches in his throat as he tries to work through the gift that Nate’s just handed him. “Can you stay the night?” Nate asks, his voice deliberately light and casual.

There’s nothing that Brad wants more. But that’s part of the problem. They have the same issues that they’ve always had. Getting older hasn’t magically erased the inherent problems of being an out couple and DADT may be gone, but that doesn’t mean that anyone’s eager for an out Master Sergeant. And yet…

“It won’t be staying for just one night,” Brad says.

“Stay,” Nate says. “Stay for one night, stay for the rest of them. Just stay.” It’s as close to begging as Brad has ever seen Nate and he wants to draw Nate into his arms, promise Nate he’ll stay until Nate kicks him out. But Brad can’t promise Nate that, even if the look on Nate’s face suggests that he’s already accepted that he’s lost the war and is just waiting for the casualties to be announced.

Brad closes his eyes for a long time. Nate doesn’t press him, just waits patiently next to him. “One night,” Brad says eventually. When he opens his eyes, Nate is staring back at him.

“One night,” Nate says and lays back down. Brad can see the edge of a smile on Nate’s face. Nate  reaches for Brad’s hand and carefully intertwines their fingers before he closes his eyes.

 

 

 

 

2008

 

It’s seven a.m. when Brad’s phone goes off. Brad takes one look at the caller ID and thinks about not answering. It’s early enough that Brad could get off with claiming that he was sleeping, but Nate’s likely to see through that anyways, so Brad picks up.

“Hello Nate,” Brad says.

“Good morning,” Nate says, his voice warm and excited, making something twinge in Brad’s chest. “Let me guess, you’re already done with your shower after your run.”

Brad’s actually just about to get into the shower, but he doesn’t feel like splitting hairs. “Like clockwork,” he says.

“My afternoon meeting has been cancelled,” Nate says. “So I think that I can get out of D.C. around three. When are you off?”

Brad turns and looks at the mirror in the bathroom. Brad’s eyes are a little bloodshot and he’s got dark purple bags underneath his eyes. There’s a headache continuing to burrow deep behind Brad’s temples.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Brad says.

“Weekend rush hour traffic?” Nate asks. “I know, it’ll be a slog. But if I wanted to skip it, I’d have to leave before one and there’s no way that I’m getting out of the office that early.”

“No,” Brad says. “Coming down here. This weekend isn’t looking good.”

Brad can hear Nate instantly still on the other end. “What’s—what’s going on?” Nate asks.

“Someone knows,” Brad says.

“Who?” Nate asks instantly. “Are they—will they be—”

“I don’t know—probably not. I can’t—I don’t know.”

“Who?” Nate asks.

“Johansson,” Brad says. “And Miller.”

“Fuck,” Nate says feelingly. Brad echoes the sentiment.

Neither of them say anything for a while. Brad wonders if Nate is working up to the inevitable conclusion that Brad arrived at around three in the morning.

“When do you think we’ll be able to see each other next?” Nate asks.

“I don’t know,” Brad says.

“Not even coming up here?” Nate says.

“I don’t know.”

Silence again.

“Well, we’ll just have to figure it out,” Nate says, eventually. Brad wants to believe him,

“How?” Brad says. “This is the last thing that either of us need for our careers.”

“Brad,” Nate says, in that infuriatingly calm voice, “the world isn’t always going to be like this. They’re going to repeal Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell in the near future.”

“You don’t know that,” Brad says. “They could remove it in one year or in ten.” And by then, Nate would have missed the opportunity to actually be with someone. Not sneaking around and trying to grab weekends here and there.

“I have faith that it will happen soon,” Nate says.

“I don’t,” Brad says.

“Well, then have faith in me. In my ability to make this work—to make us work,” Nate says.

“I’m sorry, Nate,” Brad says.

“Hey, wait,” Nate says and he sounds like he’s starting to get mad now. Good, anger is good. “You don’t get to just make unilateral decisions here.”

“I do, actually. This is my life,” Brad says.

“This is my life too,” Nate says.

“I know,” Brad says. “Believe me, I know.”

“So that’s it,” Nate says. “You’re just going to cut and run, not even bothering to try and fight for this.”

“Yeah? And what exactly is this?” Brad asks. He looks down at his hands, anywhere but up at his reflection. “We’ve never met each other’s families in the last four years of…whatever it is that we’ve been doing. We don’t hang out with each other’s friends. The men that I’m most close to don’t even know about you. I’ve seen you a grand total of nineteen days over the past year. So tell me, what exactly do we have?”

“Fuck you,” Nate says and hangs up.

When he calls back fifteen minutes later, Brad turns his phone to silent and lets it go to voicemail.

 

 

 

2004

Surprisingly, Nate keeps in contact with Brad. Wait—that isn’t exactly fair. It’s not surprising that Nate, who easily ranks as one of the most considerate people that Brad knows, keeps in contact. It’s surprising that Brad reciprocates.

Nate sends Brad regular emails, stories about his new classmates, checking in on England and occasionally threatening to visit when Brad takes too long to respond. Occasionally, Nate calls as well, ostensibly to get the latest USMC gossip, but both Brad and Nate know that Nate’s got much better sources than Brad. They never really talk about anything of importance, but Brad always finds himself looking forward to those calls—Nate’s measured tone, the way he always pauses to collect his thoughts when Brad asks him a question. Sometimes, if Brad is really lucky, he’ll say something that startles Nate into laughter

“Hey,” Nate says as their conversation is winding down one evening. It’s a rare clear day and the sun is starting to set, leaving Brad’s kitchen awash in reds and oranges. “I’ve got vacation coming up, a full few weeks before I start my internship. I’ve heard nothing but wonderful things about the majesty of England—”

“Lies,” Brad says, even as his pulse starts speeding up.

“—wonderful things about the majesty of England. How would you feel about having a clueless tourist come visit you?”

Brad pretends to think about it. “Well, I guess if you twist my arm,” Brad says, already planning what they’ll do while Nate’s in town. Bournemouth is nearby and Brad can request leave for a few days, take Nate somewhere interesting.

“Consider your arm twisted,” Nate says.

 

Three days later, Brad receives an email from Nate with his dates of arrival and departure. In a weird way, it feels a bit like a promise, the follow-through to something that they almost started once or twice before. There’s always been something there between them, almost undefinable, but just past the point of traditional Marine comradery. But Brad tries not to hope for anything in particular—or expect anything from Nate. He’s just—he’s just happy that Nate’s coming out.

 

 

Nate’s train from London is, unsurprisingly, late in arriving at the Poole station, leaving Brad standing outside in the fog, checking the screen every five minutes and cursing the rail services. Eventually, it shows up, letting off a horde of disgruntled commuters, but no Nate. For a minute, Brad’s convinced that something’s gone terribly wrong and Nate’s missed the train, but then Brad sees that Nate’s just trailing the group, walking slowly and chatting with an older woman.

Nate lifts his hand in greeting when he catches Brad’s eye and then says something to the older woman that makes her laugh before he heads over to Brad.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Nate says and pulls Brad into a hug. They engage in the usual Marine pastime of silently arguing about who gets to carry what bags before Nate relinquishes his suitcase to Brad but refuses to give up his backpack.

They get Indian takeaway and veg on Brad’s couch, the BBC low in the background. “So tell me, what are our exciting plans for the week?” Nate asks. Brad’s been surreptitiously watching Nate all night, appreciating just how open and relaxed he looks—Brad’s never seen him so at ease. Even when Nate gave his final farewell to the Corps, Nate always looked in control and self-possessed. Brad can tell that leaving the Corps was the right decision for him.

“Well, we have to stick pretty close to Poole for the first few days that you’re here, but I have leave after that.”

“Are we off to explore?” Nate asks. “Or are we holing up in your apartment while we play an all-out game of Risk?” Nate says it teasingly, but Brad’s pulse kicks it up a notch at the thought of holing up in his apartment with Nate. _Steady_ , Brad tells himself.

“I thought we'd head up north, see Hadrian’s wall.”

Nate’s eyes go comically wide in a way that Brad had expected but still feels gratifying. “Hadrian’s wall? Yeah, absolutely.”

“Or that game of Risk sounds pretty fascinating,” Brad says and Nate smiles ruefully.

“You should be careful who you play it with,” Nate says. “We used to call that game the friendship breaker in college.”

“You fancy college kids,” Brad says. “Us grunts just broke our friendships the normal ways: poor decisions and heavy alcohol.”

 

They stay on the couch until Nate’s eyes begin to droop from jetlag and lack of sleep, but Nate gets up when Brad does and insists on doing the dishes and putting the food away. They work quietly in the kitchen, Nate washing and Brad drying, and it feels familiar, as if they’ve done this before.

Brad leaves Nate on the made-up couch after Nate extracts a promise from Brad to wake him up when Brad leaves for work the next morning. “Do not, I repeat, do not, let me sleep all day,” Nate warns.

“Think of it as a test of your decaying and rotted Marine skills. A recon officer would have no trouble waking up when I leave,” Brad says, knowing full well that he’ll wake Nate up.

Nate smiles innocently and says, “A real recon officer would delegate that task to his right hand NCO.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Brad says and he hears Nate chuckle as he makes his way towards his bedroom.

It takes Brad a while to fall asleep that night, the knowledge that Nate is a wall away simmering under his skin.

 

The next morning, Brad shakes awake a yawning Nate and hands him a cup of coffee. “I’ll be back around six,” Brad says. “Try not to get in too much trouble without me.”

Nate just raises his mug in a salute to Brad and blinks a few times, bleary-eyed. 

 

They spend the first few days in the Poole and the Dorset area. On the second morning, Brad finds Nate already up and in PT gear when Brad goes to grab his shoes for a run. Brad whistles low and Nate rolls his eyes.

They end up running a little over an hour and Nate keeps up with Brad for most of it. Only at the end when Brad sprints for the last few minutes does Nate fall behind.

“Not. Fair,” Nate pants when he gets to Brad’s door. He accepts the water bottle that Brad hands to him. “I can feel the judgment radiating off of you.”

“I would never judge,” Brad says blandly and deftly moves out of the way of Nate’s intended hit.

 

While Brad’s at work, Nate takes the opportunity to explore Dorset, telling Brad about how he rented a bike and cycled through the hilly countryside or took the train into Bournemouth. Each night, they go out to one of the local pubs and get dinner and when they return to the apartment, Brad feels like they’re on a precipice, teetering and getting closer and closer to something that Brad’s not sure he can hope for.

 

On the fourth morning, Brad wakes Nate up early. “When you said that we were leaving early, I didn’t think that you meant in the middle of the night,” Nate says as he rolls his suitcase out to the car. He’s bundled up in a Harvard sweatshirt, his hair rumpled, and he looks impossibly young as he gets in the passenger seat

“I want to make it up north before the morning rush hour starts,” Brad says, putting the car into reverse. Normally, getting up north would take about five hours, Brad figures that he can make it in three, but Nate puts his foot down.

“I’m not starting the day by getting pulled over,” Nate says.

Nate falls asleep almost immediately, so Brad settles the radio into some oldies station and guns it until they get to Oxford.

Brad wakes Nate up in Oxford to get some breakfast and coffee. Nate looks over at the clock and does the math, so Brad tries to look extra innocent, although Nate doesn’t buy it for a second. Nate stays awake after the coffee though, so Brad stays within the realm of plausible deniability up until Leicester. They start hitting the morning rush traffic there, although it’s not too backed up so they make it up to the proper north a little after ten a.m.

“Hotel or Hadrian’s Wall?” Brad asks when they start getting closer to Durham.

Nate thinks. “Hotel,” he says. “I would like to put on clothes a little more suited towards walking.” So, Brad directs them to their hotel, a little outside of Durham, some countryside manor that one of the Geordie Royal Marines had recommended.

They end up grabbing lunch in the town near their hotel before heading out to the low but sprawling wall. It goes on a far as the eye can see, “Seventy-three miles,” Nate says appreciatively when they get out of the car.

There are a few other cars in the parking lot, but that’s the only sign that this could be a tourist destination. Brad and Nate hike up a steep trail to get to the path running adjacent to the wall and then just start walking.

“Tell me about this wall,” Brad says.

Nate smiles and gets this intent look on his face. “The Romans started construction on this wall in 122 A.D., to be built prior to the Emperor Hadrian’s visit to Britain.” Brad whistles low. Almost two thousand year old. “It’s impressive for how long it’s been kept intact. Especially considering that a lot of the wall was used as building material in the neighboring towns and villages, especially in the middle ages for local buildings and then in the 1700s for roads.”

Nate keeps talking, as they walk, and it’s nice, just listening to him, being outside. Being outside together.

That night, they have dinner at the hotel’s small restaurant and then proceed to get well and truly drunk in the tiny lobby bar.

“—And then Murray says, ‘Wait, you left it in the orange bag?’ Stupid idiot had to run all the way back to base before they threw away his uniform,” Brad says, cracking up at the memory. Beside him, Nate’s laughing his head off, and Brad feels this rush of invincibility, do or die, so he leans forward and kisses Nate.

Nate instantly stills beneath him but then he’s kissing back. They’re both so drunk that there’s no finesse to it, and Nate half-ends up on Brad’s lap before he declares that they’re going back to the room.

They end up making out on Nate’s bed for a long time, dark red comforter kicked off to the side, and neither of them are able to get it up, but it feels like they have all the time in the world. They end up falling asleep, only partly undressed, on Nate’s bed.

When Brad wakes up in the morning, mouth tasting like the underside of a pig, he’s wrapped himself around Nate, arms holding Nate possessively close. Nate, for his part, is gently snoring, his face pressed up against Brad’s neck.

Brad wants to go back to sleep, savor the moment, but he’s awake now and in desperate need of some quality time with a toilet as well as a toothbrush, so he tries to cautiously detangle himself from Nate. Nate, of course, wakes up the moment that Brad starts to move his arms and looks at Brad.

“What’s going on?” Nate asks.

“Just getting up to shower,” Brad says, figures there’s no longer any point to subtlety, and quickly gets out of bed. “Go back to sleep.”

“No, no,” Nate says, pushing himself up. “I’m up.”

He blinks at Brad a few times, so clearly still tired that Brad can’t help but laugh. “You’re fine,” Brad says. “I’ll wake you up after I’m done.” But Nate’s just as stubborn as Brad and he forces himself up and joins Brad in the bathroom as Brad brushes his teeth.

Brad feels a little self-conscious as he undresses in the bathroom while Nate’s brushing his teeth, but then Nate finishes and looks at Brad, very clearly giving him a once over. Brad’s sure that he’s blushing but he looks right back at Nate as a challenge.

When Brad gets into the shower and turns it on, Nate crowds up against Brad, backing Brad against the cool tiles.

“So it’s like that?” Brad asks.

“Yeah,” Nate says, leaning in. “It’s like that.”

 

They spend most of their time in the hotel for the rest of the trip, venturing out for a few hours here and there to see a few of the more noteworthy cathedrals and Roman ruins nearby. Brad would prefer to stay in the hotel, just the two of them, but he feels weirdly guilty about not showing Nate anything worthwhile.

Finally, after a visit to the Durham Cathedral, Nate turns to Brad and says, “This is great, but why are we here when we could be back at the hotel?”

“Oh thank god,” Brad says and cuts the driving time back to the hotel in half.

 

On Sunday, the last day of Brad’s leave, they head out in the early afternoon back to Poole. They get back with enough time for dinner and end up grabbing something on the high street and walking around afterwards. England summers have nothing on American summers—even for June, the weather usually barely reaches the mid-60’s, but it’s a surprisingly nice evening. They end up buying a couple beers from an off-license near Brad’s apartment and head down to a small local park.

“God bless no open container laws,” Brad says as he opens up two of the beers and passes one to Nate.

“Amen to that,” Nate says and clinks his bottle against Brad’s.

They’re quiet for a few minutes, pressed together on the bench, just enjoying their beer.

“This feels a bit like Germany,” Nate says after a while. Brad gets what he’s saying. Right now, it feels like he and Nate are in their own bubble, removed the normalcy of regular life. Tomorrow Nate will leave to go back to Harvard and Brad will return to his life as a Marine. For all intents and purposes, they will continue to function in completely independent spheres.

But, it also feels like the start of something. The beginning of a new promise to Germany’s previous one. Brad’s not sure what the future holds, but he likes the idea of Nate being in it.

 

 

 

 

2003

 

Their arrival into Germany is muted, soft sounds of air conditioning and whirring electronics replacing the loud shamals and gunfire. There’s no one screaming or crying and, for once, they’re not required to be on twenty-five percent watch or fifty percent watch.

Which makes it all the more ridiculous that Brad can’t sleep. All that he’s wanted for weeks, months, has been a good night’s sleep. But there’s a sense of unease pricking at the bottom of Brad’s spine, all of his senses on alert. Brad keeps turning over, expecting to see someone watching him in the dark, until Brad decides to face the inevitable and gets up to put on clothing.

He heads through the bleach-white halls of the base to one of the weight rooms. If he can’t sleep, at least he can work-out, get some benefit from this wasted evening.

There’s always someone in the weight room, no matter what god-forsaken time of night it is, but Brad is surprised to see Fick in the weight room as well, running on the treadmill. Fick nods at Brad and gives Brad a wry smile, like he’s here for the exact same reason. Brad nods back and feels his sense of unease fall quiet for the moment. There are a few other men in the room, marines that Brad has a passing familiarity with, but without any conscious decision, Brad finds himself on the treadmill next to Fick after stretching and warming up.

Fick acknowledges Brad’s presence with a quick, “Good morning, Sergeant,” and then they run together for a little over an hour. When they finish, Fick cocks his head at Brad and says, “How do you feel about a walk?”

Brad nods and follows him out, a pleased flush settling over Brad. He wants to say that it’s from a good workout, the burn of tiring his body out, but it’s the same feeling as when Fick and Brad used to go over the maps in Iraq or when Fick looked to Brad to gather his assessment of some clusterfuck of a situation. The feeling of victory and success that Brad is one of the people that Fick relies on, that Brad is a person that Fick chooses to be around.

They walk through the hallways of the base until they reach an exit and Brad follows Fick through the grounds, gravel crunching beneath his feet, until they stop at a bench. Fick sits down in one fluid motion so Brad does the same.

It’s quiet out here. Brad’s not stupid enough to forget the buildings a five-minute walk away, but for the moment, it’s just the two of them looking out on an open field, the stars visible in the night sky.

“I always forget the transition back,” Fick says eventually, just when Brad is beginning to wonder if they’ll pass the whole night in silence. Not that Brad would mind, as long as it was just the two of them. “You spend months thinking about it, dreaming about it actually happening…” he trails off.

“But when it finally happens, your mind is still back in the war zone,” Brad finishes.

“What’s waiting for you back in California?” Fick asks.

Brad thinks about his empty house, motorcycle sitting in the garage. He thinks about his parents and sister, the crying and hugging upon arriving in San Diego. And he thinks about Fick, how Fick’s arm is three inches away from Brad’s. Only one of those things matters.

“I’m not sure,” Brad says finally.

It’s a long time before Fick speaks again. “My commission will be up in a few months.” He doesn’t need to say the words—Brad already knows that Fick’s leaving when his time is up. Brad had known it since the last days in Bagdad; watching Fick’s remaining faith in the Corps chip away.

Fick’s leaving the Corps and the Corps will be worse for it. Brad will be worse for it.

“Sir,” Brad says.

Fick laughs softly, although Brad’s not exactly sure what the humor is. “I hope you don’t let me off that easily,” Fick says. “Especially when you hear that I will likely end up at one of those liberal, left-wing schools.”

There’s never anywhere else that Brad thought that Fick would end up. If Brad had to chart a path for Fick, it would end at the presidency, with stops at those pretentious-as-fuck Ivy Leagues, a position in Congress for one of those liberal New England states and then a smiling, perfect wife and child on the campaign trail.

“Should I start bring out my Fick for President posters now?” Brad asks.

Fick shifts a little and turns to look at Brad, now two inches away from Brad’s arm. “I’m not so certain that public elected service is in my blood. I was thinking more policy-based work. There’s a lot that I’ve seen that could make me valuable in making the Corps, the military in general even, better.”

“So, perhaps, keep the posters in the garage for a bit longer?” Brad says. Fick actually laughs at that, a full body laugh, and Brad can’t help but smile back.

They both keep staring at each other, smiles slowly fading as the moment to jump back onto the conversational track comes and goes. Eventually, there’s only the two of them, watching one another, each primed for some signal.

“Brad,” Fick says and it’s a straight shot.

“Sir,” Brad says.

“Nate.”

“Nate,” Brad says and whatever question that Nate’s asking, Brad wants to say yes, but Nate doesn’t move, just watching and waiting. And Brad knows, just in the tilt of Nate’s head and the quirk of his eyebrows, that Nate won’t push unless he knows that Brad is on board. So Brad holds close the memory of Nate’s smile in the Iraqi sun and leans forward to put his hand around Nate’s arm.

Nate shivers and leans into the touch. When he looks up at Brad, there’s no mistaking the look in his eyes. There’s nothing else that they can do right now, five hundred meters away from an entire battalion, but knowing that whatever Brad feels, whatever this thing that’s wormed its way underneath Brad’s skin, he’s not alone.

Nate resettles himself against the bench so that his arm is pressed flush against Brad’s. When Brad thinks back to that night, he knows that they must have talked about something, but he’s only aware of the warmth from Nate’s arm against his in the cooling night and the feeling that he’s just touched a live wire, sparks shooting out. Brad wants to do something, anything, and it’s one of the hardest fights of his life to stay in control.

 

 

 

 

2002

 

 

Most of the unit is at the range before their operations training scheduled for 0900 when Gunny gets everyone’s attention and gathers them together. There’s a man next to him, young, his blond haired and green-eyed clean cut look doing him no favors. He barely looks old enough to be out of school and even if Brad decides to be generous in guessing the officer’s age, he can’t be any more than twenty-five. Normally, Brad would peg someone who looks that young as being fresh out of officer school, but something about the guy says that he’s been around. One doesn’t generally become a recon officer by luck. And unless the scuttlebutt is off its mark, this is going to be a recon officer. Specifically the unit’s new LT.

Despite the fact that twenty men are staring at him, all of them probably running the same exact evaluation on the new guy, the man doesn’t look bothered or ill at ease. Instead, he’s looking back at them as well, his gaze frank and open.

“This is Lieutenant Fick,” Gunny says and Lieutenant Fick takes a step forward to address the group.

“It’s a pleasure to meet all of you,” Lieutenant Fick says. “I’m Nate Fick. I was with ARG in both East Timor and Afghanistan before BRC.” Peacekeeping and then Afghanistan with the ARG. Not completely useless then. Lieutenant Fick continues on. “I’ve heard good things and I look forward to working with you.” He flashes a quick smile. “A bit about myself: I’m originally from Baltimore. I’ve also whole-heartedly adopted the Ravens as my team.”

There’s a bunch of half-hearted groans from the unit and Lieutenant Fick’s lips edge up a miniscule amount. 

Lieutenant Fick says a few more things, organizational items and scheduling—apparently their field training has been moved up a week without notice, trust the Corps to fuck its Marines whenever possible—and then the group disperses.

They stay at the range for another half hour and Brad feels hyper aware of Lieutenant Fick. He and Gunny are just watching the unit shoot, talking quietly, but Brad can feel Lieutenant Fick focusing on each of the men, assessing them, beginning to take measure.

 

Brad watches Lieutenant Fick throughout their training that day—Fick is calm, collected and efficient. More than a few times, Brad catches Fick watching Brad as well and when Brad catches him at it near the end of the day, Fick inclines his head slightly, smiling slightly. Brad nods back.

Brad’s learned not to expect anything from the Marine Corps, but after they get dismissed for the day, Brad acknowledges that there’s something about Lieutenant Fick. Something about him that commands Brad’s immediate respect. And oddly enough, Brad almost feels like he’s looking forward to it.


End file.
